Encounters
by tea and frangipani
Summary: A series of one shots. 2. HP xover. The Grangers encounter a darker sort of magic, long before Hogwarts.
1. Hello Tomorrow

**Disclaimer**: It all belongs to Rowling and Whedon.

**A/N**: FFA Pairing – Joyce Summers and Harry Potter

Chapter One: Hello Tomorrow 

It was dark out, and the weather wasn't helping any. Rain fell in sheets over the windows, and the windshield wipers were working overtime, squeaking back and forth as the driver grimaced and peered out the window.

"Vernon, please, _stop_ that infernal racket!" the passenger beside him complained tetchily. She turned and leaned over to the backseat where a chubby baby was fussing. "It hurts poor Duddykins' ears!"

"Bloody hell, woman," the fat man answered angrily. "It's raining cats and dogs, I need them to see the road!"

The blonde woman only made a small noise of dissatisfaction before glancing down at the map held in her hands. "Vernon, are you sure you know where you're going?"

"Of course I'm sure!" he growled.

"Well I don't even know what street we're on," the woman said petulantly. "It seems to me we're going in circles. Vernon, let's just stop and ask for directions!"

"I do not need directions!" Vernon snapped, taking on a purplish hue. "I'm sure their house is just a bit further down, Petunia."

"It better be," Petunia replied crossly. She glanced at her son in the rear-view mirror. "I think Dudley needs a change of nappy, and I'm sure Mrs. Figg is getting tired of watching over the boy – "

In the distance, yellow headlights cut through the darkness.

"Look, there's another car," interjected Petunia. "Try to flag them down and ask for directions when they pass."

"I don't _need_ directions," Vernon said dangerously, but complied as the car approached.

"They are coming up awfully fast," Petunia commented.

Vernon grunted. "Bloody teenagers, think they're invincible – "

"Vernon," she interrupted nervously as the car crested the hill in front of them and came even closer, "They're not slowing – "

She never finished her sentence.

---

"I'm so glad you could come," Marge Dursley said brusquely, not at all sounding like it.

"Oh, it was the least I could do, after the accident," Joyce replied, trying to sound sympathetic. Marge was Vernon's sister, but she was only their cousin. Joyce hadn't been the one to get the first phone call, hadn't been to watch the news reports ("_Drunk driver kills family of three."_), and hadn't been the one to read the wills.

"Yes, the accident." For a moment Marge looked gloomy and disheartened. "But most of their affairs have been put in order. But there is still one thing left."

"What?" Joyce asked, wondering why Marge had dragged her all the way from L.A. for this.

They turned a corner and stepped into a room. "Him." Marge said shortly, pointing.

He was a tiny, scrawny boy, with too-big clothes and messy black hair. Despite the toys scattered around the waiting room, he was sitting on a chair silently, swinging his legs and looking at his feet. He looked up when they entered, soulful green eyes meeting her gaze for one moment before returning to the floor.

"Him?" Joyce asked incredulously. All she saw was a young boy, maybe four years old at the most.

"Petunia's nephew." Marge grunted. "Orphan. She took him in."

Joyce wondered how the boy must feel – first his parents died, then the closest people he had to parents were killed. Her heart went out to him, but he showed no outward signs of sadness, only a quiet seriousness.

"Where will he go now?" Joyce asked her cousin, lowering her voice, though she knew he would hear her perfectly well. He didn't react at her words, seemingly absorbed in the floor.

"I can't possibly take him." Marge said with no pretence of quietness. Her voice was strong with an undercurrent of – what? Was that fear…hatred?

The realization dawned upon her. "You want me – "

"To take him in, yes." Marge finished for her. "I assure you he's no problem. He'll do any chores you ask of him."

_He's only four,_ was Joyce's thought, but she didn't voice it. "I don't know – how could I possibly – I already have a daughter, and I'm not sure what Hank would think…"

But her gaze was drawn back to the little boy. His shoulders were hunched and tense, and his eyes seemed to be glued even more to the floor. A wave of compassion hit Joyce. How could she leave him in this unforgiving place? Her mind already half-made up, she walked towards him and kneeled in front of his chair.

"Hello, I'm Joyce. What's your name?"

Slowly, slowly, his gaze moved upwards to her face. "I'm Harry," he said finally.

---

Hank had agreed with little complaint. Joyce knew that while Buffy was daddy's little princess, Hank had always longed for a son. Buffy had a fondness for the dark-haired boy, she soon announced to everyone that he was going to play magical fairy princesses with her, and he would be her magical fairy princess pony.

"I suppose this is it," Marge said abruptly. The family stopped in the airport.

"Do you want to say goodbye to your Auntie Marge?" Joyce asked, kneeling down to face Harry.

Harry tilted his head upwards and chewed his lip. "Do I hafta?"

Joyce laughed softly. "This will be the last you ever see your Aunt Marge, at least not for a long time." Behind her, Marge looked supremely uncomfortable.

Harry's eyes lit up and he turned to his aunt. "Goodbye, Aunt Marge."

Marge grunted. "Goodbye, boy." She sneered, and then she disappeared into the crowd.

Joyce was taken aback. She knew her cousin had a bit of abrasive personality, but did Marge really hate her own nephew that much? She turned to Harry, who was watching Marge leave with not one bit of sadness, only a small bit of satisfaction.

Did Marge blame poor Harry for the deaths? She scooped up Harry with her arms. "Come on. We have a plane to catch."

Hank picked up Buffy, who giggled wildly. " 'm flying! We're all flyin'! Harry, you're flyin' too!"

But Harry only gave a small smile as Joyce ruffled his hair, his sharp green eyes watching as they walked through the airport, leaving cold, dark Britain behind for the brighter skies of California.

_Things will be better there, _he told himself.


	2. With The Lights Off

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to Rowling and Whedon.

**A/N: **FFA pairing – Anya Jenkins and Hermione Granger

**Chapter Two: With The Lights Off**

The first time Hermione Granger met Anya was a chilly night, late in November, when she was five.

Hermione's parents were sensible, practical people. They were well off, with a successful dentistry practice and a three-bedroom house in the suburbs. Anne-Marie and Edward Granger were both fond of reading, chess, and other no-nonsense activities. They prided themselves on being well informed, intelligent, and generally well-rounded people, with a practical, clever daughter to boot.

They did not believe in magic, and neither did their daughter. Hermione had read many books, despite her small age, and did not believe in Santa Clause, the tooth fairy, or unicorns, like many other children her age. For example, everyday at seven o'clock, instead of watching cartoons, Hermione carefully examined the daily newspaper from front to back. Her parents were of course delighted, and often engaged in spirited debates over newspaper articles.

However, as two working parents often were, the couple often worked late at their practice, leaving their five-year-old daughter alone in the house. Though they did trust her, they did not think it was safe. And so, they needed a babysitter for their daughter.

And Anya was the answer to their needs.

The Grangers never questioned how Anya had shown up, just as they needed a babysitter. After all, they were sensible. It was only a coincidence.

Right?

---

When Anne-Marie Granger came home one night, announced by the slam of the front door and a crash of something thrown against the wall, Hermione knew something was about to change in their family.

Anya looked up from her magazine. As a baby-sitter there was nothing out of the ordinary about her – just an American attending university in London, trying to earn some extra cash. She didn't interest Hermione. As baby-sitters went, Anya was no better nor worse – she liked to make popcorn but she didn't like to play games. Everything she did was rushed and half-hearted, as if she was waiting for something better to come along.

But that seemed to change. As the sounds of Anne-Marie's fury reverberated in the next room, the candidly bored languor that always seemed present with her evaporated, leaving a fresh eagerness and an odd sparkle in her eye that Hermione didn't like at all.

"You stay here while I go check on your mom," Anya commanded, and then she threw down her magazine and left the room.

---

Anya had been with her mother for quite some time now. Anne-Marie alternated between bouts of tears and fits of rage, and the sound of things breaking still continued. Hermione just sat silently, an ear to the door, trying to catch the fuzzy conversation, but only managing to half-catch her mother's crazed cries: "How could he!" " – all the things I did for him!" "And with the _secretary no less!"_

And then for a long moment there was silence, then a familiar male voice saying "I'm so sorry darling – " but another crash cut off his words.

"Get out! Get out of my sight!" Hermione heard her mother scream, then Anya's calm voice saying, "Oh hello Edward, long day at the office?" with an undercurrent of something Hermione didn't understand.

"You _bastard!_ _Cheating _on me!" And then there was another crash and tinkle of glass. "I wish you would be eaten from the inside out!"

"_Wish granted_."

---

A long time after the screams stopped, Hermione still hid in her closet, hands over her ears, careful to control her breathing.

_Everything's all right_, her brain repeated over and over again, as she stared at the one slash of light creeping in from the space underneath the door.

And then she heard footsteps walking towards the closet, two shadows creeping into her slash of light. Then the door swung open.

The person (thing?) stood, framed by the harsh light flooding into her closet. Hermione refused to look up, staring resolutely at the two feet in front of her.

"Hermione," Anya's voice came. "Your mother's looking for you."

Reassured by the familiar American accent, Hermione looked up, but her eyes only saw a demonic visage splattered in blood. She screamed.

Anya scowled. "Be silent, annoying and pink-faced spawn."


End file.
